


Sherlock in Wonderland

by schehrezade2005



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-09-06
Updated: 2013-09-21
Packaged: 2017-12-25 20:41:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,618
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/957396
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/schehrezade2005/pseuds/schehrezade2005
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock and Watson encounter a killer with a botany hobby, Sherlock encounters someone from his past, and Watson tries to have a normal relationship.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Twin Dilemma

**Author's Note:**

> DISCLAIMER: I do not own Sherlock or any of the characters. All rights belong to their respective writers and parent television companies.
> 
> Note on the cannon: Post-Irene, pre-Fall.

Sherlock sat in his armchair completely naked drumming his fingers on the armrest and staring at the wall, thinking.

A gentle breeze played with the curtains as it wafted the scent of freshly baked bread through the window. Sherlock toyed briefly with the idea of going downstairs to get a sandwich at the cafe, but decided it would slow down his thought process. He disliked being slowed down.

The soft creaking of the stairs interrupted his revere. He turned his head to face a mousy red head wearing a bright print floral gown and ballet flats. The slight bulge in her front pocket meant keys; the jacket over her arm indicated she thought she was going to be out late; lipstick, not mascara, but her eyes were plenty bright on their own without the extra makeup; hunched shoulders indicated she was nervous, but the smile playing on her lips said she knew who he was just by looking at him.

"Take it off," he said as he turned back to face the wall.

"Pardon?"

"The dress. Take it off. It's too bright. It interferes with my current thought process. I need the room to be completely devoid of highly pigmented items because they stimulate the extra-sensory neurons in my brain and I prefer to devote the entirety of my brain to the task at hand. Now, if you would not mind removing your clothing so that I might continue to follow my current line of thinking."

The red head blinked at him, her mouth slightly open before composing herself. She entered the room slowly, lay her jacket over the arm of the other chair directly opposite Sherlock and took the dress off over her head.

"And the undergarments."

"Why..."

"Fewer articles of clothing reduces the static electricity in the air. I also feel it necessary to make it quite plain to you that though you are not currently wearing a bra or anything that could pass for a respectable pair of pants, there will be no intercourse tonight as your date will be otherwise occupied with matters that will become clear to you momentarily," Sherlock interjected, not looking away from a fixed point on the wall.

The woman bit her lip and carefully slid out of her panties, scooting them across the floor to take up a small patch of carpet next to her shoes.

"You're more than welcome to have a seat and wait."

She walked slowly past Sherlock and took a seat in the chair opposite him, pulling her knees up to her chin. He noted that her fingernails were chipped, indicating she worked with copious amount of paper; her calves were muscular, meaning that she probably went up and down several flights of stairs during the day.

"You must be Sherlock. John's told me about you."

"And yet he has waited until the fourth date to bring you to our flat. Rather curious, don't you agree?"

"Perhaps. But he did mention you were rather...inquisitive...with his girlfriends."

"As I should be. We do share a flat after all."

"John's made it rather clear that we won't be spending much time here..."

"As it should also be. I have important work to do and I cannot concern myself with overnight visitors...or really most visitors at all for that matter. I prefer to surround myself with a certain kind of person and our Mr. Watson happens to fall into that particular category."

"I see," she said demurely. She hugged her knees closer to her chest.

"Do I frighten you?" Sherlock tweaked his head downward so that he was looking directly at her.

"Your intellect frightens me," she said returning his gaze.

There was a noise on the stairs and the sound of sirens in the distance but neither broke their eye contact as John Watson crossed the threshold into the flat. He shook off his brown coat and frowned at his flatmate and his girlfriend staring at each other.

"What's this?"

"Ah! Watson!" Sherlock remarked jovially as he turned to face him. "We were just getting acquainted."

"In the nude? Where are your clothes?" Watson turned to his girlfriend, clearly flustered. "Where are your clothes?"

"I asked her to take them off. The colors were distracting me." He turned toward the woman. "They suit you very well, by the way, and I cannot say that about many a woman's choice and manner of dress." The girl bobbed her head in agreement. "Anyhow," Sherlock continued as he stood from his partially reclined position, "we have a case. Best be off, Watson."

John gaped at him as Sherlock crossed the room and into the kitchen. "What...what case? Did you get a call?"

"No, I'm anticipating," came a voice from beyond the kitchen. Watson rolled his eyes and turned back toward the woman, who had just finished pulling her dress over her head.

"Are you alright?" Watson asked.

"Fine," she replied. "He's just like you said he would be."

Watson frowned. He looked as though he wanted to be relieved, but he wasn't at all.

Sherlock popped his head around the doorway from the hall. "Are you coming or not?"

"What about..."

"She can come if you like," Sherlock replied before turning and floating down the stairs. "Quickly, now. You know how I dislike being late."

***

Lestrade frowned, tapped his chin with his pen, looked up at the balcony of the second story flat, and then back down at the body lying face down in a patch of marigolds. It didn't seem like a far enough fall to kill a man, and yet, there was one at his feet, quite expired. He let out a sigh and turned away from the body to find Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson step under the police tape, donning latex gloves for examining the crime scene.

"Should I even bother to call anymore or should I just let you follow the sirens?" Lestrade mused as Sherlock knelt beside him to look at the body.

"I only take certain cases, you know this, Inspector. I felt, as I sat listening to the sound of traffic, that this case possessed a certain quality that warranted my particular brand of expertise." Sherlock flattened himself into a push-up position then sprung back up and circled around to the other side of the body. "It's not every day that a man allegedly falls to his demise out of a second story window...."

The man was lying face down, fingers buried in the flowerbed, meaning there would surely be dirt under his fingernails; heavy black wool coat that was in bad need of a dry cleaning but much too warm to be worn in the current weather; feet were positioned with toes facing out as if the body had been positioned....

Sherlock moved to the feet: the toes were scuffed, perchance because the body had been dragged, though there were no tracks on the cement pathway; the trousers were too short for the man's large frame. Sherlock frowned and patted the man's pockets: no wallet, but there was a mobile, which he removed from his front pocket. He squatted with his elbows resting on his knees and looked at the calls list: nothing. The phone had clearly been wiped, but there were ways of recovering the data.

"Well?" Lestrade sighed as Sherlock looked from the body to the balcony to the body.

"Doctor, would you care to offer your expertise?" Sherlock asked Watson as he stood and went to inspect the man's hands partially buried with the marigolds.

Watson carefully knelt next to the body and turned the man's head. "Male, approximately 40 years old, 86kg..." He lifted the closed eyelids. "Jaundiced, probably in the last stages of renal failure Face is pretty badly swollen, consistent with a beating not a fall." Watson frowned as he pulled back the lips. "No teeth to speak of..." He pulled back the collar of the man's coat. "Some bruising around the neck. Probably been dead about two hours." He looked up at Lestrade and Sherlock.

"Quite right," Sherlock mumbled as he set the hands back down on the ground. "And no fingerprints."

"So we have absolutely no way of identifying the body?" Lestrade asked. "Unless there is a DNA trail?"

"It would seem so..." Sherlock mused as he looked up at the small flat. "Who lives in this building?"

"Widower. He was lending the room to a young couple," Lestrade gestured up at the balcony, "and the woman found the body when she came out to get the Evening Times. She's being interviewed now, if you'd like to go and speak with her."

"Not necessary. She has no connection to our corpse, nor does the husband or the widower. This man was murdered elsewhere and brought here to make it look like a fall, but you'll notice the positioning of the body is far too neat: legs straightened, hands in the planter, bruising on the face. If the Doctor is right, as I suspect he is, then this man was already quite close to dead when he died, so why kill him? There's something else at play here...."

Sherlock turned and scanned the small crowd that had gathered across the street. Watson's girlfriend Donna stood out from the drably clothed crowd in her bright dress and fashionable coat, tilting her head this way and that as if she was looking for cars before crossing the street.

"Watson, a moment?" Sherlock called over his shoulder. Watson excused himself from Lestrade's company and joined Sherlock. "I didn't think you had it in you."

"What do you mean?"

"Juggling two lady friends at the same time won't make for a satisfactory end, in my experience."

"Two girlfriends?"

"Yes." Sherlock pulled off his latex gloves absent-mindedly and continued to scan the crowd. "You've been quite the naughty boy."

"Should I even bother to ask how you deduced I had two girlfriends?" Watson smirked.

"You have been out six times in the last month. Donna was kind enough to confirm for me that this is supposed to be your fourth dinner, so where have you been the other two nights? Your sister is not in town, neither is any other member of your family; the social circle you keep is rather small, since work at the surgery and your assistance with my cases has you occupied nine nights out of ten. The might lead me to believe that you have just recently met this 'other woman' and since you appear to have a fondness for both ladies, you can't bring yourself to break up with one or the other. Donna seems a fairly standard choice for you: good symmetry, slim hips, boring job. What I cannot figure is who the other is and what she has done to charm you into deceiving that poor creature into thinking she is the only one...."

"That's an invasion of my privacy!" Watson protested.

"What privacy? My dear Watson, I can tell things about people just by looking at them! The only secrets people have are the ones embedded so deep in their psyche it's probably not actually worth knowing...."

"My personal life is my business," Watson interrupted. "You've never had or wanted a say in what I've done before; most of the time you could care less about what I do or don't do, and you only pay attention when it suits you because you believe that I need to give you my undivided attention..."

"Are you quite finished?"

"No! I..."

"Because there is a man standing across the street that has been watching us with some intent ever since we got here and he's standing in a curiously close proximity to the records clerk you've chosen to occupy your time. He's also a twin to our dead man over there, down to the yellowed eyes and ill-kempt clothing."

"What?" Watson turned toward the crowd just as the tall man in the dark wool cloak pushed his way to the back of the huddled mass of bodies and disappeared down the street. Sherlock made his way back under the police tape, crossed the street and pursued the man around the corner of the block, Watson close behind him. By the time they reached the end of the road, the mystery man was gone. 

Sherlock paced back and forth , hands curled in his dark hair. "No! Blast!"

"What's wrong?" Donna asked as she jogged up behind the two men. "Lose something?"

"More like someone," Watson sighed.

"A clue! We lost a valuable clue!" Sherlock rounded on Watson and Donna.

"If it helps, I noticed you staring at him from across the way and snuck my mobile into his pocket."

Sherlock and Watson both stared. "How did you..." Watson trailed off.

"I knew watching those crime dramas would come in handy," Donna smiled. "Shall we grab a bite?" she turned to Watson. "I'm famished."

"I could go for something. Sherlock?"

Sherlock shook his head and looked back down the street. Something felt off about this whole thing; he just couldn't put his finger on what.


	2. Subliminal Messaging

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Watson tries to enjoy an evening out. Sherlock takes an interest in having a plant.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DISCLAIMER: I do not own Sherlock or any of the characters. All rights belong to their respective writers and parent television companies.
> 
> Note on the cannon: post-Irene; pre-Fall.

Sherlock glanced around the small shop where the three had chosen to take their supper while John and Donna looked at their menus.

The shop was painted in red and white checkered squares, furnished with tacky vinyl booths and Formica tables. There was a counter to the right of their booth, which was decorated to match the gaudy paint job on the walls. The walls were lined with poorly framed pictures of the food offerings, primarily focusing on the chips - there were at least three that invited the diner to 'Eat Your Chips!' in cheery capital letters. It stank of old grease and had the ambiance of a funeral, since himself, John, and Donna appeared to be the only occupants besides a disgruntled waitress and the fry cook. 

"What are we doing here?" Sherlock sighed.

"We're eating..."John trailed off.

"Is it not disconcerting to you that the walls are lined with gaudy artwork rank with subliminal messaging? Does it not bother you that we appear to be the only persons here in this god-awful set piece passing as a restaurant? Not to mention the fact that the establishment is named for the food they serve and it gives off a most repellant odor that's offending my senses..."

"Leave then," Dawn interrupted, lowering her menu to look at Sherlock. He shot her a glare and she immediately retreated behind the menu.

"I can't be here. I can't be seen here," Sherlock continued.

"Who is going to see you?" John shook his head. "Can you at least try to be...not yourself for a short while?" he whispered.

"I can never be anything other than who I am, Watson. It's quite rude to make people believe you are someone you're not." He shot another glance at Donna, but she was still hiding behind the menu. "Since I believe you do not require my presence at this juncture nor do I require yours, I will retire and attend to other business."

"What other business?" Donna and John chorused.

Sherlock stood abruptly, wrapped his scarf around his neck, and breezed out of the diner.

"Is he coming back?" the waitress inquired as she approached the table.

"No," John sighed. "I suppose not. Can we get two of the fish baskets please?"

"Extra chips," Donna smiled as she handed the menu to the waitress, who scribbled the order on a tattered notepad and departed.

***

Sherlock hailed a cab at the corner of the block and returned to the crime scene. There were a few police vehicles still left in the vicinity, which probably meant that they were not yet done processing the crime scene.

Everyday men had a terrible time trying to grasp the basest of facts.

He ducked under the tape and approached the spot where the body had been lying in the flowerbed. The corpse had been removed and likely taken to the morgue at the station, that much was obvious; what bothered him was the perfection of the garden. Even if the body had been placed, there would have been some other disturbances of note, but as the soil was freshly tilled (because the marigolds had been newly planted within the last few days), it was hard to deduce if any disturbances had been made at all.

Sherlock pursed his lips and clasped his hands in front of his face. Look deeper, he thought.

Each plant was placed approximately eight centimeters apart, except for the last two plants at the end of the row that were only five and a half. The particular shade of the marigolds indicated they had come from a nursery and sold at market; fullness of the blossom suggested that the plant had been treated with some external stimuli or genetically altered. 

He raked his long fingers through the soil, grasped a pinch, and sniffed it: cheap filler soil, probably bought at the grocery. Sherlock tossed the soil back in the flowerbed and proceeded to dig a small hole between the last marigold and the sidewalk where the planter ended. He took up another pinch of soil and sniffed it: higher quality soil, but cheaply made. He tossed the bit of soil back, pulled up one of the marigolds by the root, stood, and walked confidently away from the little garden.

"Mr. Holmes," shouted one of the inspectors, "where are you taking that marigold?"

"I've decided to take up gardening in addition to my other numerous hobbies." He rounded on the man. "Is this permissible?"

"But that plant goes in that planter!"

"No, it doesn't, and I intend to prove as much after I have run the necessary tests. Now, if you will excuse me inspector, I must be on my way."

"Are you going to sweep up that mess?" the inspector called after him plaintively.

"Not my division!"

***

"He did not!" Donna laughed.

"I'm afraid he did," John smiled. "And then he says to the poor bloke, 'Now, if you wouldn't mind shutting your trap so that the rest of us can commence with a more intelligent line of thought, I would be most obliged'."

"How horribly rude!"

"Well, in Sherlock's defense, the man was a bit of an idiot," John said as he munched on another chip.

"But that doesn't give him the right to be so hostile."

"Have you not met the man? Every time he opens his mouth, I hear 'punch me in the face'. He's an egotistical maniac. A genius, but an egotistical maniac nonetheless."

"He ought to be a nicer man, from what I have heard of him."

"The rare occasions on which Sherlock is actually 'nice' there is something more at play," John shook his head. "If he was not the sort of man that he is, then...well, the world would be that much more ordinary."

"So," Donna held up a hand and began to tick things off on her fingers. "He's a genius, he's...egotistical, relatively unfeeling and uncaring, largely incapable of a normal range of emotions, and yet, he has a distinct soft spot for you and you for him."

"Things are never ordinary with Sherlock, that's for sure. He has a certain flair for the fantastic."

"I should say so," Donna said as she bit down on a couple more chips. John watched her as she polished off the remains of the basket, neatly wiped her fingers with the paper napkin, and took one last sip of her drink. "Fancy walking back to my flat? It's not far."

"I could do with a stroll after that exceptionally large meal," he smiled.

***

Sherlock entered the lab and found Molly standing at the far end of the room, bent over the counter in concentration.

"I was just about to lock up..." she trailed off as she turned around. "Sherlock!" she brightened. "What are you doing here?"

"I have something for you," he said simply as he thumped the marigold onto the table in front of him.

Her face fell. "A plant..."

"This plant was the witness to a murder earlier today and I would like you to find out what it knows."

"Sherlock," she coughed, "it's a marigold. I don't know how much it's going to be able to tell me."

He rolled his eyes, swept the plant off the table, and walked further into the lab. "Clearly, I have to spell everything out for you." He found a pair of scissors and proceeded to cut the buds off the marigold as he spoke. "This plant has been genetically altered. What I cannot discern is if it has been altered with regular feedings or if it is a hybrid that can grow in our city climate. It has come from a private grower and each grower has a particular signature on their plants; I am tasking you with finding the owner of this particular breed of flower. Additionally, you will need to test the soil samples and other extraneous debris from under the victim's fingernails and compare it with that found in this root ball."

Sherlock paused to scoop a handful of dirt off the counter and sprinkle it in a Petrie dish which he forced into Molly's hands, along with a marigold bud.

"Best get a move on before the flower dies," he remarked as he swept out of the lab, leaving Molly to stare dumbly at the remains of the marigold on the counter and the specimens in her hands.

"You're welcome," she said to the air.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Extra special bonus points if you can pick out the obscure Doctor Who reference.


	3. La Traviata Boheme

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John Watson has a cup of tea with his other woman. Another body is found and Sherlock is not fond of the assisting detective.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DISCLAIMER: I do not own Sherlock or any of the characters. All rights belong to their respective writers and parent television companies.
> 
> Note on the cannon: post-Irene; pre-Fall.

Sherlock was flipping madly through a book about botany when John arrived back at their Baker Street flat after spending the night with Donna.

"You never came home last night," Sherlock said as Watson entered and took off his coat.

"I don't see what concern that is of yours," John replied.

"I needed your assistance."

"You could have messaged me."

"I did. Eleven times to be precise. All of them ignored. Even the one about the flat being on fire."

"What?" John cried as he took his mobile out of his pocket and began to scroll through the messages. "What was so important that you sent me ELEVEN messages?"

"Flowers," Sherlock replied as he flung another book into the growing stack beside the table, nonplused at John's outburst.

"Why...would you need my help with flowers?"

"Not flowers, per se, so much as a particular flower. " Sherlock pushed a book toward John. "Marigolds. Ugly little goldenrod things people use to decorate their yard. And yet, the marigolds in the yard where we found our latest murder victim might be able to tell us exactly what happened. Provided Molly is adept at her job and can provide me with an adequate chemical breakdown of the soil and the plant itself, we can be one step closer to our killer."

"You seem to be doing fine on your own," John remarked as he skimmed the page about marigolds.

"Are you cross with me?" Sherlock looked up, his dark curls falling into his eyes.

"No, why would I be cross with you? Actually, never mind," John waved his hand as Sherlock opened his mouth. "Yes, I am annoyed with you. Firstly, you make my girlfriend strip naked for no apparent reason at all. When we go out, you seem to have nothing constructive to say about the restaurant of choice. Then, after you have dismissed me, you message me eleven times about how I should get over to the flat because it's of great importance and it doesn't actually have anything do with fire," John's voice rose. "I am trying to have a life besides adapting to this...this stigma of being your..sidekick!"

"Sidekick is so demeaning," Sherlock remarked as he went back to the books. "You're my colleague and I merely wanted you to be present while I attempted to make a breakthrough in the case."

John ground his teeth, went to the chair, picked up his jacket and made his way out of the sitting room. "I have a friend to go meet, so if you will permit, I will take my leave."

***

John Watson settled himself at a small table outside the cafe in Oxford Circus, adjusted his tea cup in front of him, then sat with his hands in his lap watching the people pass by on the street. He watched a young couple holding hands as they crossed to the opposite side of the motorway and smiled. Young people were so innocent, so oblivious to the realities of the world around them, believing themselves immune to the horrors of their city...perhaps this is what Sherlock meant when he said humanity didn't use all of their brains....

"John?"

An American woman's voice broke his revere and he looked up at a blond woman with a large messenger bag over her arm.

"Hello, Dawn," he smiled.

"Am I late or did you show up early?" she asked as she set down her bag and adjusted the thin scarf around her neck.

"Why does it have to be late or early? Can't it be that we've managed to meet at exactly the right time?"

"That's a rather romantic notion, don't you think?" She smiled and bit her lip. John shrugged and took a sip of his tea while Dawn caught the attention of a waiter and ordered a cup of Earl Grey.

"How's the case?" she asked.

"What case?"

"Don't you have a new case? I can only assume that's why you seem distracted."

"Do I?" He took a sip of his tea. "You're as bad as Sherlock."

"Ah, yes. The brilliant Mr. Holmes." Dawn paused for a sip of her tea. "The man who can deduce everything about someone...merely by looking at them."

"Almost, anyway." He took another sip from his cup and set it back on the table. "It's aggravating being with a man who's so...superior to everyone else. And it's not even a perceived superiority, it's a genuine...genius..."

Dawn smiled, rested her chin on her folded hands, and rested her elbows on the table, urging him to continue.

"In addition to the fact that he has the temperament of a small child and the need to be constantly right about everything...."

"But you still see something in him...and he sees something in you. You complement each other; he takes you out of your comfort zone, you ground him, you remind him that there are people in the world that are worth sharing a life with...or at least a flat."

"I suppose you're right," John said after a pause. "But it doesn't make him any less aggravating."

Dawn shrugged. "True. But you have to admit, Sherlock's done some good things for you since you met him."

"Can't argue with that."

A loud doorbell ring interrupted the conversation. Dawn groaned and dug into her messenger bag for her mobile. She looked at the message, frowned momentarily, then smiled. "It appears a mutual friend has need of me in Chelsea. Care to come along?"

***

John and Dawn took a cab to the crime scene, where she had to show the officer several pieces of paper explaining that she was a private investigator conducting an investigation in cooperation with the police. Thankfully, Lestrade intervened before Dawn got too aggravated and chucked the officer in a nearby bin.

"Same as the last five," Lestrade sighed. "Took a jump from a second story building."

"You're considering it as a serial case, though, yes?" Dawn asked, lips pursed as she pulled on gloves.

"After the third, but we didn't ask for consulting detectives until we found the bodies in Ilsington."

"Right, right." She rummaged in her bag and pulled out a walkman and headphones. "I'll need a moment before Mr. Holmes shows up." She looked up at Lestrade. "I am to assume he will be here post haste?"

"I've given him a call, but he usually finds his way to crime scenes on his own..."

Dawn smiled as she adjusted the headphones and handed her bag to Lestrade. "If you will excuse me gentlemen..." 

She pressed the play button and closed her eyes dreamily as the first bars of 'La Traviata' filled her ears. Dawn knelt carefully next to the body, which was positioned face down, spread eagle in a patch of grass and patted the midsection. She frowned and moved toward the head, carefully turning it ninety degrees to face her. Same yellow eyes, same lack of teeth, judging by the sunken appearance of the mouth and lower jaw. She scooted toward the hands; the fingers were spread elegantly in the sod, dark matter under the fingernails, the skin tissue thin - she could see veins and knuckles.

Dawn bit her lip, stood, and moved to examine the feet. Tips of the shoes were scuffed, but otherwise normal wear. She lifted the pant leg to expose the ankle, revealing the same tissue thin appearance as the hands. She tilted her hair this way and that, studying the area around the body. There was still some dew on the grass, but the place had been disturbed by whomever found the body and the subsequent inspectors. She stopped her tape, took out her headphones, and smiled.

"Would you like to enlighten us, Mr. Holmes, or shall I?"

She turned to see Sherlock standing patiently (as patiently as was possible) next to John, hands stuck deep in his coat pockets, his mouth barely visible above his grey blue scarf, dark curly hair clearly disheveled.

"We're looking for someone with a size seven shoe narrow, possibly a woman based on the depth of the prints in the grass. Body was placed, likely dragged. Thinness of the skin suggests dehydration, possibly poisoned, which would have allowed our killer to subdue him. But what I would like to know, madam, is what you are doing at my crime scene?"

Dawn stepped toward him, the gloves snapping as she pulled them off. "I think you know who I am. Just like I know who you are. How far did you run after the cab broke down? 45km? 60km?"

"If you must know, Miss Tinsley, it was 53.3km, and the cab did not break down so much as traffic was slow."

"Then why do you stink of exhaust?"

John looked up at Sherlock, who had not moved from his stance since his appearance at the scene. He noted that Sherlock's eye visibly twitched when Dawn asked him about the cab and turned away so that Sherlock didn't see the smile break out on his face.

"Extraordinary," Sherlock whispered. "Watson, a word." He took John's arm and steered him away from Dawn and Lestrade.

"You need to stop seeing her," Sherlock hissed when they were out of earshot.

"What?"

"Miss Tinsley."

"I know who you're talking about. What I don't understand is why you are asking me to terminate my relationship."

"I don't like her."

"You never like any of my girlfriends."

"She's particularly disappointing," Sherlock frowned.

"Why? Because she's American?"

"No, that's tolerable."

"Because she's a private investigator?"

"Her profession is not of concern to me. What is of concern is her mind."

John frowned. "Her mind?"

"It's extraordinary," Sherlock whispered.

"I don't follow...."

"We can read each other. She's one of the few who actually uses their whole mind; she's clever, she's witty, she's..."

"A much more tolerable version of you?"

"Yes, let's go with that."

"Even though it's not the real reason?" John half-smiled.

"It's the real reason if I say it's the real reason!" Sherlock hissed.

"If you girls are done," Dawn's voice drifted over to them.

"Might I add, I'm profoundly disappointed in you."

"When have you ever been proud of me?" John frowned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Extra special bonus points if you can pick out the reference to "The Boondock Saints" and the reference to "The Office (UK)".


	4. Cause Having Neil Clark Harris on Your Date Isn't Weird

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock has a chat with Dawn sans John and invites her to dinner.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DISCLAIMER: I do not own Sherlock or any of the characters. All rights belong to their respective writers and parent television companies.
> 
> Note on the cannon: Post-Irene, pre-Fall.

Sherlock approached the door of Dawn's rented flat and paused outside the door. If he was going to do this correctly, he would have to knock and ask to be let in, but doing things the way one is supposed to was never really his style.

He tried the knob. It turned in his hand and he let the door swing open.

The apartment was sparsely furnished: there was a plain wooden table in the center of the sitting room with a set of rickety chairs and a large but well-worn armchair near the fireplace. A forgotten glass of water was sitting on the kitchen bar, which was plainly equipped with a gas stove and a small refrigerator.

Dawn sat in the center of the room at the table in front of a computer with her back toward him, headphones on, tapping a finger absently. He had taken two steps into the room before she removed the headphones and ran a hand through her blond hair.

"It's rude to come in without knocking," she said, still not turning around.

"Since when have I ever been known to be polite?"

"Being as I don't believe that you have any notion of politeness, I am going to say never." She turned to face him, peering at him through her glasses. "How can I assist you, Mr. Holmes?"

He studied her for a brief moment: the glasses were probably prescription and since she was using them at the computer, Dawn was likely far-sighted; her fingernails were short and showed signs of having recently been cut, as confirmed by the few stray nails on the bare floor; the overly-large shirt she was wearing suggested she was not expecting company, but her hair had been washed and combed, which said she was planning on leaving her flat at some time today; the lack of things on the table meant she had begun work shortly before his arrival.

"Take off your clothes."

"Pardon?" Dawn laughed.

"If you would please remove your clothing."

Dawn uncrossed her legs and unwound herself from the chair. "That's rather...forward of you, don't you think?"

"Indulge me this once and I am sure we can come to some sort of agreement about how best to work solving these 'falling man' murders, since that seems to be what you and the police would like."

Dawn's eyes narrowed, but she removed her glasses, set them on the table behind her, and removed her shirt and under things so that she was standing before Sherlock stark naked.

"Do you enjoy this?" she asked crossing her arms.

There was a long pause before his reply.

"There was...a woman..." he said slowly. "When we met for the first time, she was stark naked, just as you are now...and I couldn't deduce anything about her at all."

"Was she beautiful?"

"She was...a mastermind, like myself. And she knew how to best me."

The two fell silent.

"There is an appendectomy scar near your navel, probably about four years old; you wax; you prefer to jog, but find yourself mostly walking as of late because you are nursing a sprained ankle injury and a left knee replacement; Muscle tone in your arms suggests you can lift your body weight, but you don't like to strain yourself; listening to you talk, you have a distinct American accent but no regional affiliation; the posture suggests someone in your family was military, probably your father, which means you moved frequently as a child, a fact which inspired you to take a position as a private inspector."

"And?"

"Your right foot is much larger than your left, so you have to wear two differently sized shoes."

"You're very observant, Mr. Holmes," Dawn smiled as she pulled her t-shirt back on. "Now I will deduce some facts about you. And I will do it without asking you to take your things off.

"You weren't hugged enough as a child; You don't like to eat when you work because you believe digestion slows you down; you're trying to quit smoking cold turkey; your intelligence alienates you from the rest of the world, but since you seem to think that most people are complete tossers anyhow that fact doesn't bother you; You are the youngest in your family..." Dawn tapped her nose. "You play the violin, likely because it helps you focus, calms your nerves, and it's a neat little thing to be able to play at parties, when you do allow visitors into you flat."

"You've been talking to our mutual friend about myself far too much," Sherlock half smiled.

"John's merely told me that you have a flair for the dramatic and you don't leave the house for a case that you rate less than an eight. I'm not a self-proclaimed high-functioning sociopath like you, Mr. Holmes. I'm hyper-observant."

Sherlock made a circle around the table and chairs. "Yes. Quite." He went to the opposite end of the room and looked out the window into an alley below before abruptly turning back to Dawn.

"Would you like to have dinner?"

Dawn arched an eyebrow. "For what point and purpose?"

"Clearly you have missed that this is me trying to be sociable and polite. You are not as observant as you tell me you are."

"I have a date with John tonight."

"Then I shall accompany you. It should make up for the fiasco of last night's supper and we shall discuss the case."

Dawn's eyes narrowed. "Alright. Might I suggest you pick the place then?"

***

"I don't like this," John said as he straightened his collar.

"It's fine," Dawn said, glancing sidelong at Sherlock. "It wouldn't be any more awkward than if Neil Clark Harris showed up."

"Who?"

"Never mind. Look, we're here."

The cab stopped at a small pub at the edge of Piccadilly Circus and the three climbed out, pedestrians brushing past them on the street. Sherlock lead them into the establishment and chose a dark corner near the back of the room. The three sat in silence for a full minute before Sherlock jumped out of his seat to get them drinks.

"I really don't think this is a good idea," John sighed as he looked out at the rest of the faces in the bar.

"Why not? It's a very public place, he's less likely to make a scene...." Dawn tried to reason.

"I just...for once I would like to have a date with a girl where Sherlock wasn't butting into my business."

"You do live with the man."

"Doesn't mean he gets to have all of the intimate details of my private life," John shook his head as Sherlock approached with three glasses of wine.

"I hope this doesn't taste like piss - the selection was abysmal. Nothing older than 2003."

"Might I remind you that you picked this venue?" Dawn asked.

"Only to make up for that awful display night before last when I stormed out of the Fish and Chips, which to be honest, is quite a hole in the wall. This is a much more reputable establishment, though its more preoccupied with its beer list than its wine list."

"The chips were good, though," John mumbled as he sipped at his wine.

"Right," Dawn started. "What is this I hear about marigolds?"

"They were placed at odd intervals in the planter where I found them. I believe the killer may have transplanted the marigolds to cover something up."

"That's highly unlikely."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, the killer hasn't used foliage of any kind before, so why break a pattern now?"

"So you know who it is then?" John asked.

"Yes and no," Dawn said as she took a sip of her wine. "This is the work of the Cheshire Cat. I've been following her around the US for years but for some reason she's made the jump across the pond and the only logical explanation for that is sitting right in front of me."

"What? Sherlock?" John laughed.

"You said it yourself, John, he likes a good mystery, same as the rest of us, but there are only a few that are worth solving, only the most interesting, the most unique, the ones with a strange twist to them."

"No argument there," Sherlock interjected.

"So my hypothesis is that the Cheshire Cat is tired of the ordinary and wants to do something far more extravagant, but she needed to be in the right place at the right time in order to do it."

"So who is the Cheshire Cat?" John asked.

"That's the problem. There's been no actual evidence to clues to make a solid identification, other than the fact that she is a woman that targets middle-aged men and kills them by throwing them from the second story of a building.

"But she's mixed it up a little bit, positioning the bodies and using the soil under the fingernails as a breadcrumb. It's either brilliant or sloppy, but as for now, it is the calling card of choice."

"Hmm..." Sherlock touched the tips of his fingers together and rested his elbows on the table. "What else?"

"Poison or some sort of hypnotic chemical is used to subdue the victims and that's likely what causes their deaths, not the fall. Most of the time, the men are dead before they hit the ground."

"Why 'Cheshire Cat'?" John asked.

"In the American murders, there was a grinning cat face hovering above the bodies. It was usually the first thing you saw when you walked onto the scene. Just seeing that smile coming out of the wall was enough to set my teeth on edge." Dawn shuddered. "It's not something you can get out of your head very easily."

"I can imagine..." John whispered. The table fell quiet, Dawn and John contemplating their wine glasses and Sherlock still staring at the two people across the table intently. A waiter interrupted their revere to bring them two plates of bangers and mash, which he set down on the table with a clatter.

"I hope you don't mind; I took the liberty of ordering you something to eat," Sherlock interjected abruptly as the waiter walked away. "If you will excuse me for a moment, I'll leave you to eat."

John and Dawn followed him as he made his way across the room and walked out the front door of the pub.

"That was odd," Dawn sighed.

John shrugged and pulled a plate toward him. "That's Sherlock."

"He's changed..."

"How do you mean?"

"We've met once before, several years ago. He never actually told me why he was in the States, but at the time it wasn't important. I was working with the FBI at the time and he'd managed to talk his way onto this missing persons case, despite the fact that he had no formal credentials to speak of. Turns out the whole thing was a gross misunderstanding and I took the fall for it as a the junior agent." Dawn poked at the potatoes on the plate in front of her. "Sherlock tried to get me my job back, but when he saw that wasn't possible, he introduced me to a friend of his father's that had need for a private investigator. Everything else just sort of fell into place after that."

John stared at her. "But he doesn't remember you?"

"Hard to say," Dawn remarked as she sipped at her wine. "It's possible he's deleted the incident as extraneous." She paused and tapped her fingers on the table. "What can you tell me about Irene Adler?"

***

Sherlock leaned against the building staring up at the patch of sky visible beyond the shadow of the buildings and counted the stars. The people on the street weren't that exciting to watch and he felt like his deduction skills were going into overdrive.

As he counted, he thought about John.

He liked John. He valued his companionship. Sometimes he even envied the fact that he had such a simple mind. And he understood that John wanted to be able to have a romantic relationship, even if Sherlock didn't see much of a point or purpose. 

It was surprising to Sherlock that he went to such lengths to keep John out of harm's way, to protect him. He knew trying to reconcile any feelings would prove to be a moot point, but there remained the fact that John had decided to accept his invitation to be his flatmate and his colleague despite what Sherlock had done to dissuade him. There had to be a medium, he reasoned, between monotony and war, and Sherlock liked to think of himself as somewhere in the middle. A medium, somewhere John could use his skills as a doctor and an amateur observer without being in imminent danger.

His revere was interrupted when he heard Dawn's laugh. He turned toward the door of the pub as John and Dawn made their way out into the crowd, their arms interlocked.

"Was your meal satisfactory?" Sherlock asked politely.

"Yes, wonderful. You were right, though, about the wine. Absolute rubbish." Dawn smiled and turned to John. "I should take you to this little French restaurant...."

A body fell with a sickening splat on the sidewalk in front of the trio before Dawn could finish. John's eyes went wide, Dawn covered her mouth with her hands, and Sherlock looked up at the second story window from which the body had fallen just in time to see a figure duck back inside. Pushing through the crowd, he entered the building and raced up the stair case to the room the figure had occupied, but upon entering found the person gone.

Sherlock pulled at his hair, yelled in rage, and spun about the room. Something caught his eye on the ceiling and he looked up.

There, painted on the wall, was the grin of the Cheshire Cat.


End file.
